Bobbie MacLaurin bounded down the steps.
"He tried to come into my room," said Miss-Vost. "He tried to come into my room!"
"I know. I know. But it's all right," soothed Peter, panting. "You must go back to bed. You must try to sleep." He talked as though she were a child. "He was a bad man. He had to—to be treated—this way!"
"You—you look like an Arab. The dark. And that beard. Where is Bobbie?"
"Right here. Right here beside you!"
"You're not hurt—either of you? You're both all right?"
"Yes. Yes. Please go to bed!" begged Peter.
"Please!" implored Bobbie.
To them there was something unreligious, something terrible, in the notion of Miss Vost standing in the presence of the grim black heap in the shadow. Nor were her youth and her innocence intended to be bared before the eyes of men in this fashion.
As if a chill river wind had struck her, she shivered—closed the door.